tainted tears
by tainted with trouble
Summary: she cries vodka tears as he sips her wine, and they can taste both on their tongues. -carla&peter, au.


this is the worst fic ever but i have an excuse and that is that i haven't wrote anything remotely good for at least a billion years so forgive me in advance and try not to tell me how shite you found this and we'll get along justtt great ;) oooooh and i should probably mention that this is au, and it's set in like october/november of 2010, maybe before or after carla told peter she had a crush on him. :}

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tainted tears

The bottle of red wine feels cold in her hand, and it's that and the moisture of it seeping into her skin that keeps her from dropping it. The bottle continuously feels lighter and lighter, even though she can't remember taking a single sip from it. She realises that pills and alcohol are probably a deadly combination, but the only thing she can see through the haze is the promise of oblivion and eternity.

"Miss me?" A voice behind her asks. She turns her head, but only a bleary face and clear brown eyes come into focus. He grips his glass as tightly as she does her bottle, but he can still walk, so she thinks that he's winning.

"I've been waiting here an hour," she says as he goes to sit down, brown liquid almost swinging over the side of his glass.

"Yes, and I've been here five minutes," he replies, taking a sip (she can almost feel the taste of it sliding down her throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake). "And since when didn't you use a glass?"

"Shut up," she says, taking a delusional sip which she probably won't remember _(the past stays in the past)_. Without her consent, a tear runs down her cheek, clear and shining in the light (she's crying vodka tears).

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice joining the haze and his motion being blurred as he takes a sip of his own drink _(or at least it should)_.

"It's fine," she says, wiping away her tears. "And I already know," she adds.

"Right," he replies, reaching across for her hand and pulling the bottle from her hand (he was always a romantic). "I've been saying it for two years, and it hasn't improved any of this shit. Sorry."

She watches as he pours (her) wine into his empty glass. The crappy lights and the dimming candles are orange in the room, and the wine in his glass (and on her lips, her tongue, her teeth) join the artificial sunset. The liquid is blood red as it touches his lips, and she almost believes that it's poison.

They stay there for a little longer. The few words they utter hold far less meaning than the silence and his warm hand in hers.

Then it becomes _i-know-something-you-don't _whispers and _do-you-remember-that _eyes that glisten in the starlight, and intertwined hands that lead him to her nearby apartment (alcoholism was always so convenient).

He tastes of scotch (and that has to be her least favourite), but his hands are warm and he's a fucking _amazing_ kisser (and he's still _add-ic-tive_ as ever). So she continues to kiss him, and enjoys it for once (it's the next best thing to alcohol).

He pulls her into his lap and continues to kiss her, making her just a little more giggly and even more dizzy. The world starts to spin a little faster (and she's losing gravity), so she grips onto his hair tighter as he digs his nails into her skin a little deeper.

She's left gasping and panting as she pulls away, feeling hot breaths on her neck. She pulls him back up for a kiss and moves closer to him, smiling against his lips as he grips her hips and she grips his face (just to make sure he can't leave her, and she won't forget).

"Why do you drink?" He asks, a slight laugh in his voice as they pull apart. She buries her face in his neck and smiles (and it's real and fake at the same time).

"Because it takes the pain away for a little while. And it's fun," she whispers, giggling as she pulls him into another kiss. They keep goingandgoing until there's more heat and more tongue, and her clothes are sticking to her skin and the feel of _wanting_ is in her kiss.

"I can't do this," he says as she presses her lips to his neck and grips the edge of his shirt. "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to."

She looks up at him with wide green eyes and swollen red lips.

"Why?"

He cups her face in his hand and swipes his thumb over her cheek (and it's such a sweet little cliché). He stares at her (green and brown were never compatible), and a little smile rests upon his lips. And then he tells her she's beautiful and taints it with the truth, and then she's just a mess in his arms as he rocks her back and forth and she tries to fall asleep.

_(He even sings her a whiskey lullaby.)_

.

She throws the bottle at the wall. The glass in the carpet paints the words of 'you were right', and 'addiction', 'problem', 'grief', and 'depression' (and her tears fall as the blood trickles up her throat). The smash of the bottle fills her ears, but somehow, the liquid seeping down the wall is almost disconnected from the whole event.

(Intoxicated blood spells out I ' .)

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okaaaaayyy. i really am not sure about this, but i've wanted to write a decent corrie fic for ages and yeah. please review, and i will take all comments on board unless they're not along the lines of "lol ur a shit writer plz die." :)


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